


Couch Crashing

by runawayballista



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-20
Updated: 2012-04-20
Packaged: 2017-11-03 23:34:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/387211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runawayballista/pseuds/runawayballista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Grif's sister turns up after a months-long disappearance, his first reaction is to fly into a seething rage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Couch Crashing

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in a silly AU originally thought up by the lovely Emma (laughingalonewithrvb@tumblr) in which the Blood Gulch crew live in the same apartment building.

For the first month or so after he realized she was gone, Grif went nearly out of his mind with worry.

It wasn’t something Simmons really knew how to deal with, and he was far from used to seeing Grif -- _Grif_ \-- putting that much energy into anything, let alone _worry_. Simmons hadn’t ever met his sister -- he didn’t even know her name -- but he’d always gotten the impression Grif wasn’t all that fond of her, the way he tossed around insults about her like old garbage. But Grif kept working himself into a tizzy, sputtering out scenario after unlikely scenario ( _What if she’s dead? She was supposed to call me when she got back from spring break! What if she crashed her car and died? What if she was hitchhiking and got kidnapped? Oh, God, what if it was_ bats _? Vampire bats, Simmons! Fuck! I never even got to say goodbye!_ ), and after a while, Simmons realized that none of his logical reassurances were working and he just stopped trying.

A couple of months after his sister disappeared, the manic fretting seemed to wear away and Grif sunk into some kind of depression instead. It was an awful lot like how Grif normally was, a lot of sleeping and eating and generally not doing much at all, except that a weird sort of gloom had settled over him, making him even more sluggish than usual. It was kind of starting to wig Simmons out a little, just because -- who’d ever heard of Grif being _depressed_? It was bizarre, and he didn’t like it. But there didn’t seem to be much he could do, not by talking to him, anyway, and so Simmons just let him be, even if it meant that he was on dish duty at least twice as often now and it was deeply upsetting the balance of his chore calendar.

So of course there came a knock at the door when Simmons was elbow-deep in a sinkful of dishes (he didn’t know how one person could _make_ so many dirty dishes just making TV dinners), sleeves rolled up to make way for the rubber gloves (because it was more sanitary that way, and as Donut insisted on telling him, it was _way_ better for your skin). He cast a look at the door, lips tugging into a frown.

“Grif! Can you get that?”

“I can’t get out of bed,” came Grif’s wobbly, miserable moan. “I’m sick, Simmons. Sick with _grief_.”

“Oh, God,” Simmons muttered to himself, and reached to turn off the water. He stripped off the rubber gloves, laying them neatly against the sink so that water wouldn’t get inside them, and headed for the door.

“Can I help you -- ” he started, pulling open the door, but as soon as he twisted the knob, whoever was on the other side of it pushed it open, nearly knocking him in the head. He jumped back, letting it swing against the wall, and -- stared.

It was a girl. Her mouth was cocked into an almost familiar, lopsided grin -- she had dark skin, a rich, creamy brown, but her dark hair was streaked with shades of cheap bleach blonde. She had a bag slung over her shoulder, a beaten, sun-bleached shade of orange, and flip-flops on her feet. She was dressed in what could only be accurately described as booty shorts, ripped and fraying, and a loose-fitting white tank top and _whoa_ she was definitely not wearing a bra. Simmons averted his eyes with a polite cough.

“Can I -- ”

“Hey, does, like, Dexter Grif live here or something?” she piped up, as if she hadn’t even heard him speak. Simmons looked at her face again -- her _face_ \-- noted the similar features, and then his face melted into an expression that somehow incorporated dawning realization, dismay, and relief.

“Hey, uh, Grif?” he called, turning his head back into the apartment. “You might want to come out here.”

“Not now, Simmons! I’m _moping!_ ”

Simmons opened his mouth to respond, but the girl in the doorway beat him to it, pushing her way past Simmons into the apartment without an invitation.

“Hey, bro!” she screeched, cupping a hand around her mouth. That stupid grin never left her face. “Whassup?”

Simmons thought he heard a distinctly strangled cry from the direction of Grif’s room, but there was hardly any time for him to process it before Grif’s bounding into the room, his face contorted with -- rage? _What?_

“I don’t fucking believe you!” he sputtered, nearly slipping on the carpet in his hurry to get to the door. “Do you have any idea how _worried_ I was? I thought you were fucking dead!”

If she even registered anything he said, she didn’t show it. “Hey, who’s this guy?” she asked, jerking a thumb at Simmons, who jumped a little. “He’s kinda hot.”

“Don’t you even fucking start!” Grif snarled. “You were supposed to come _home_ after spring break, you idiot! Hell, you were supposed to graduate from high school _three weeks ago!_ ”

“She’s in _high_ _school?_ ” Simmons balked visibly.

“Not anymore,” she chimed.

“And you couldn’t even call? What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?” Grif looked like he might reach out and shake her, in which case Simmons was pretty convinced they’d wind up with body glitter all over the carpet. “I had no idea what happened to you! How could you do this to me? What the fuck would Mom say, huh? _I thought you were dead!_ ”

“Jeez, bro, lighten up,” she said, apparently unfazed by Grif’s seething fury. Simmons had to admit, he was kind of impressed. “Hey, can I crash here for a while? I kinda blew the last of my cash on this abortion, and I had to hitchhike here, and I am _starving_ \-- hey, is that pizza? I see pizza!”

She leaned to peer around Grif into the kitchen, but he grabbed her around the shoulders and Simmons stared in shock as he began to shake her, actual, honest to god jerking her back and forth. “Fucking listen to me when I’m talking to you! I -- you -- _fuck!_ ”

She just gave him a weirded-out look that spoke volumes of _dude, seriously?_ and Simmons, feeling at last that he should intervene before someone got strangled, pried Grif’s hands away from his sister and hauled him back.

“God _dammit!_ I swear to God, I’m gonna -- you -- aaargh!”

“Oookay, Grif, uh, let’s just get you back to your room,” Simmons said quickly, giving him a shove down the hall. He kept a firm hand on Grif’s shoulder, tossing a slightly frantic look back at Grif’s sister. “Just -- shut the door, will you?”

“Score!” she whooped, and the sound of Grif’s frustrated scream drowned out the thud of the door behind her.


End file.
